


A Kiss to Every Scar

by dontcallmebree



Series: Do The Things You Never Showed Nobody [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Mob, Bearded Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mob Boss Steve Rogers, Modern Bucky Barnes, Personal Assistant Bucky Barnes, Shrunkyclunks, sorta Slice of Life or timestamps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontcallmebree/pseuds/dontcallmebree
Summary: Bucky sighs defeatedly. “Be nice,okay?”Steve grins down at him with an entirely unconvincing look of innocence, stormy baby blues lit up like he could do no harm. “Aw, Buck, I’m always nice.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Do The Things You Never Showed Nobody [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022916
Comments: 46
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this week on _do the things you never showed nobody…_
> 
> (Beta read of course by the wonderful Meraki_Moli.)

Bucky feels like death warmed over.

His nose is red and irritated from the number of times he’s rubbed it, his throat is sore from sneezing and coughing so often, and his head is so heavy he’s had to prop it up with a fist. There’s no denying it now, he’s definitely sick. 

Pete gingerly settles on the couch across from him, and hands over a steaming cup of tea. “I thought I asked for coffee, kid,” Bucky grumbles, even as he takes a nice, long sip. It’s sweet and milky, yet sharp with the taste of black tea. Porch kid’s officially been with the Brooklyn Irish for too long.

“Tea’s better for you when you’re sick, I can’t make you _coffee_ ,” Pete’s eyes widen all too innocently. Sometimes Bucky thinks he’s _really_ playing up the whole helpless puppy schtick. Whatever works, he supposes. 

Bucky leans back into the worn out cushions, letting the mug warm up his hands. “I’m too tired to tell you off right now.” 

“Good,” Pete smiles wide and bright, pleased with himself. He shifts around in his seat for a full minute, until Bucky bumps their knees together to prompt him to get whatever it is off his chest. He finally squeaks out, “College applications just opened.”

Bucky perks up, excitement making him sit up properly. “You’re going to apply this year? Got enough saved up?”

“With some financial aid, yeah,” Pete’s cheeks color. 

Bucky makes sure to look as encouraging as possible. “Hey, I can help with those forms if you want. Had to fill out endless paperwork for mine, too.” He lifts up a placating hand, “And I know, I went to school like a lifetime ago, you don’t need to remind me,” Pete snickers in response, “but I helped my sister Alice with hers not that long ago so hush, my memory’s fresh enough.”

Pete’s still grinning, biting his lip to hold back whatever quips he has about Bucky being old, but nods anyway. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“Sure, kid, you can always ask me for help,” Bucky goes back to his slowly cooling tea. At least now it won’t burn the roof of his mouth, while still warming up his insides. 

“Um, well,” Pete starts pulling at the lose threads of a throw pillow. He avoids Bucky’s inquiring gaze, but one pointed raised brow later and he folds like a cheap road map. “I’mthinkingofgoingoutofstate.” When Bucky gathers the energy to tell him off for mumbling and _not_ helping his headache, Pete straightens his spine like he’s getting ready to head into battle. “I’m considering colleges out of state.”

“That’s great, I’m sure you’ll-”

Peter cuts him off with a shake of his head. “I’m _thinking_ about it, but I don’t know if I can do it,” he shrugs. “I mean, how am I gonna work for the Roshars in another state? I don’t even know how I’ll be making money if I leave, the extra room and board is going to make everything even more expensive, and who’s going to be helping my aunt with the bills? I just- I can’t just _leave_ -”

“Whoa,” Bucky digs knuckles into his eyes. “Slow down.” He hears Pete mumble a quiet apology but waves it off after heading off a sneeze. “Okay, first of all, if you get in somewhere out of state you don’t have to worry about the Roshars. The point of you taking all these jobs is so you can _go_ to school, right?”

Pete rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. “Well, yeah, but-”

“But nothing. We _want_ you to go and be a kickass scientist or whatever it is you do with a degree in biochemistry. Fuck, Steve’ll be thrilled. You’ll still be family no matter what.” He puts down the half full mug and places it in between his thighs, leaning forward and propping both elbows on his jean clad knees. “And look, if you need some help with room and board, you know we’ll help out. Hell, taking out a loan from Rita might just leave you better off than student loans.”

“It’s not that simple,” Pete mumbles.

Bucky sighs, looking at the poorly disguised, cautiously hopeful face in front of him. “I know, but keep your options open. You’ve got choices, and a fuck ton of people having your back.” Pete shoots him a faltering but grateful smile.

Steve comes out of the back from Rita’s office soon after, slumping down next to him and crowding his space as soon as he lays eyes on Bucky. “Jesus, Buck, are you okay?”

Bucky groans, hiding behind a sip of his drink. “Do I look _that_ bad?” he presses a clammy palm against his cheek.

“Honey, you’s all pale and-,” Steve takes a deep breath. “Come on, let’s get you home and you can rest up and feel better.” Bucky bats away Steve’s hands, sinking further into the corner of the couch. “Bucky, come on.”

“It’s just a bit of a cold, I’ll be fine after a nap later,” Bucky insists. “Tomorrow’s our anniversary, Steve, I don’t want to be sick for that.”

Steve pulls him in so Bucky can rest his weight on the blonde, snuggling into the somehow rock hard but perfectly cozy torso. “I dunno how to tell you this, sweetheart,” Steve caresses the side of his face, “but I don’t think your body cares about whether or not you _wanna_ be sick, much less if we got plans.”

Bucky lets Steve wrap that stupidly large body around him, and gives into fully laying his head on the muscular shoulder, finding a measure of relief in just being cared for when he feels so shitty. “But-”

“There’s always next year, and the ones after that,” Steve smoothes away curls from his flushed forehead. He doesn’t know if it’s the tea or the casual and easy confidence of his boyfriend mentioning the coming years of their life together like there’s no question, but something heated curls in his gut, making its way to the very tips of his fingers and toes. He wonders if Steve can see years into their future and what it could possibly look like. 

“Hmm,” Bucky rests his eyes for a second, wrapping himself in the feeling and burrowing deeper into Steve’s embrace. He knows this isn’t actually something that can affect his health, but maybe he’s getting some kind of contact high from that 40s steroids Steve’s so famous for, ‘cause he sure feels better. 

He must be muttering about Steve’s drugged up blood out loud because he can hear the guy laugh at him, Pete joining in. That’s not a good sign - being delirious with fever would definitely be the last nail in the coffin for their special day. “Stop it,” he nonsensically chastises, lips pushed into a pout. He’s not even sure if he’s telling Steve to stop laughing or his body to stop more or less deteriorating. 

“Alright, time for that nap,” Steve coaxes him to start getting up.

“Wait,” Bucky holds onto Steve’s arm and throws all of his weight into keeping them on the couch. “Pete’s got something to talk to you about.” He shoots the kid an encouraging look.

“Oh, I- I really don’t, it’s nothing!” Pete denies unconvincingly. When Bucky glowers at him, he ducks his head. “I was just telling Bucky that, um, I’m going to be applying to colleges soon,” he peeks up at Steve through his lashes. “Right about now, actually.”

“That’s fantastic news,” Steve beams, smiling from ear to ear in clear pride. “You know where you wanna go? I remember you talkin’ ‘bout MIT a couple years back.”

Pete looks between him and Steve for a few seconds in silence. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Not unless I get a scholarship, anyway, but wouldn’t you- Would that be okay?” Steve’s eyebrows come together in a furrow, head cocked in confusion. “I mean, then I wouldn’t be in New York, and I’ve been working on a lot of things around here lately-”

“Kid,” Steve interrupts. “Are you asking me if it’s okay for you to go?” When Pete just guiltily tucks his hands under tense thighs, Steve unfurls his arms from around Bucky to lean forward closer, though a warm comforting hand remains on his thigh. “Did I ever make you think that you gotta stay here forever? That it ain’t okay for you to go and do better things?”

Pete releases his bottom lip from between his teeth. “No.” 

Bucky knows that Pete is well aware of the countless Roshars in various fields, cops and professors and doctors, who came from the neighborhood and paid their dues, and are still very much working for the Brooklyn Irish even when spread out across the country. But he can understand how it’s hard to envision that for yourself.

“You know all we want is for folks around here to have the chance for all ‘a those things they wouldn’t otherwise be able to even _dream_ of.” Steve clasps his hands together gently. “You’re always gonna be one of the Roshars, Pete, don’t get me wrong.” The use of his name seems to worsen the tension lining those slender shoulders, and Bucky’s tempted to step in and help Steve soften his admittedly already very careful words. This is something porch kid has to hear, though, and he’s lived through worse things than a serious talk with Steve Rogers. 

“I know that,” Pete whispers, finally digging out his hands from their hiding place.

“Don’t mean you gotta pass up on the opportunities you worked your ass off to get. You can take up a job with Bruce and cut down on jobs here even, or maybe-“

“No,” Pete cuts him off, though he very obviously regrets the instinct and curls in on himself as soon as the word leaves his mouth. When Steve waits him out calmly, he gets out, “That’s not- I’m not cutting down on jobs to work for Bruce full time. That’s not what I want.”

Steve searches his face for long enough that Pete’s about ready to vibrate out of his skin, Bucky’s pretty sure. “Okay,” Steve’s deep voice accepts easily, though Bucky can tell he’s holding back a few choice words. He sighs, and leans back. “You remember Jones, right? Moved south a while ago. His wife's on her way to the international space station right now.” Pete perks up in awe. “What we do here is so we can send people to the moon, kid.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, and immediately wishes he hadn’t because they instantly throb and worsen his headache. “She’s not going to the moon, Steve.”

“It’s an expression,” Steve glares at him. 

Bucky refuses to back down, staring him down. “I really don’t think it is.”

Steve ignores him in favor of getting back to Pete, who seems to have loosened up over the course of their talk. “You understand what I’m sayin’?” 

“Um,” Pete’s eyes slide over to Bucky. “You want to send me to the moon?”

Steve slumps in his seat, causing the other two men to erupt into giggles. “I think he’s got it, Steve,” Bucky pats him on the shoulder. He sees Pete muffle even more laughter in the corner of his eye, and Steve faking a protesting scowl. For half a second, he forgets the slight fever he’s running, and loses himself in easy laughter.

◆

The day of their anniversary passes by in a blur, as does the next few after that. 

Bucky’s bogged down by cough and fever, one hell of a flu, and even he has to admit that he’s particularly grumpy and needy through it all. Steve sticks by him, though, waiting on him hand and foot, all but force feeding him soup. 

He takes an unimaginable number of baths, mostly because Steve insists on it. It’s comforting, and not just for him. Steve fusses over him so much that Bucky’s worried he’s going to pull a fucking muscle from all that tension he’s carrying around. With enough gentle talking to, the older man pulls himself out of his anxiety spiral and gets his shit together. 

Steve’s always particularly attentive whenever Bucky has so much as a cold, and he’s familiar with the guy’s tendency to catastrophize every sniffle, possibly something carried over from his own sick days, so he’s got the whole comforting spiel down pat.

To be completely honest, he doesn’t remember a word of what he said this time around, a little too high on his meds to even mark the hours he slept much less think about what he’s been rambling on about. 

The one time he’s lucid enough and Steve’s not in bed, he’s woken up by the sounds of muffled arguing from outside the bedroom door. He catches something about cancelling a work dinner, and how whoever it is is going to have to suck it up and come back another time.

He walks in on Sam sedately muttering, “Guess he’ll fly back into town in a week or two, you know how forgiving those NFL schedules are,” and Steve telling him to fuck right off. “Hey, man, how you feeling?” Sam spots him as soon as he sets foot in the living room.

“You’ve got dinner with that linebacker guy,” Bucky realizes, looking to Steve where he’s grabbing food from the oven. Steve’s been working sporadically, not quite able to take the past few days completely off, but limiting it to just a couple hours out of the house anyway.

Steve waves away his concern with an easy shrug, “It’s moved to next week.” Bucky narrows his eyes suspiciously at Sam, who after a deep sigh shrugs and defeatedly backs Steve up. Bucky’s not fooled for a second, but lets it go and goes back to bed. He’ll have to be fully recovered to tackle arguing with either of those hardheaded assholes. 

By the end of the week, he’s mostly good as new. This time, when he wakes up to scruffy Steve, his eyes aren’t glazed over and his head is clear, taking in the stormy baby blues and atrocious bedhead without having to wade through a foggy mind.

“Mornin, Buck,” Steve gives him a rough kiss on his temple, beard scratchy against his skin. “Well, not really morning anymore, but I’ll give you a pass.” Bucky scoots his way further into the center of the bed, burying his face into Steve’s thigh. “Feelin’ better?” 

Bucky hums an affirmative, nuzzling into the fingers carding through his hair and making him melt into the mattress. “I feel like a new man,” Bucky sighs, wrapping his arms around Steve’s leg. The older man snorts, massaging further down his neck and across one shoulder.

“Really? ‘Cause I was pretty smitten with the regular old you,” Steve nudges him onto his back, tracing sleep lines across one cheek. Bucky teasingly tries to bite the finger, almost catching it between his teeth. “Come on, let’s take a bath and I can strip and remake the bed.”

Bucky wants to argue, because he’s discovering that there _is_ such a thing as too many baths, but he actually does want to wash off the sweat and overall griminess of being sick, and finally sleep in fresh sheets, so he follows Steve’s coaxing arms obediently. 

He’s already showered off the past few days and filled the tub with mostly hot water by the time Steve joins him in the bathroom, tossing the pile of dirty sheets and blankets into the hamper on his way in. 

Stepping into the tub, he sinks down onto Steve’s lap and starts scooping up warm water to pour over the man’s large shoulders. He’s gotten used to having someone of Steve’s size against him, but sometimes he’s abruptly taken aback by the sheer bulk of him and the equal amount of restrained power and gentle tenderness behind those muscles. 

He follows the water with his fingers as it trails down and in between perfectly sculpted pecs, rivulets streaming over old nicks and scars including one under his arm that Bucky’s learned was from teenaged Steve getting shivved with a broken beer bottle. 

Bucky places soft kisses over every blemish, each of them telling the story of the man he loves. He can’t get over how stunning Steve is sometimes, with his defiant eyebrows and stubborn chin.

Something in Bucky’s face must convey what's running through his mind, because Steve grins broadly, pulling him in to place kisses across his brows, on his nose, down to his cheekbones and under his lips. 

It doesn’t take long for things to devolve into getting each other off, a perfectly nice return to normal after days of wallowing in bed. Steve lifts him straight out of the water when he gets frustrated with the lack of space, earning a thorough telling off from Bucky for catching him off guard.

The offense is quickly forgotten as soon as he spills onto the bed and is shown exactly why it is Steve wanted him there. 

Bucky giggles as Steve hums against his skin, slowing down his breathing as he comes down from his climax. His dick is still half hard and snugly nestled inside Bucky, a weirdly nice, comforting presence that he almost wants to keep forever. Steve kisses under his jaw, and pulls back half an inch. “You’re cute, you know that?”

“Hmm, you tell me often enough,” Bucky wriggles, earning an over sensitized grunt, and is quickly kept still by Steve’s firm grasp no matter how hard he tries to escape the hold. 

He looks pleased with himself, the bastard. Bucky’s even tempted to say he looks _smug_ , and pinches an unyielding bicep pointlessly. “Maybe I oughta tell you more,” he presses a kiss to the curve of an earlobe, and continues to place chaste pecks across his skin with every remark. “How wonderful you are, the way you make something inside this awful heart of mine all full and content, how much you make waking up every day worth the effort.”

“Steve,” Bucky throws his head to the side with a huff. Steve can get so fucking sappy when they fuck after a few days going without. He wonders if he can use that to his advantage, get Steve to do the month’s laundry or something.

“Hey, hold on, I’m serious,” Steve holds his gaze, bringing large hands up to cradle his jaw. “I’d worked to get myself together before you came along, yeah. I got Sam and Rita and everyone, but, _Jesus, Buck_ , none ‘a that’s nothin’ compared to how _happy_ I am now. You make my life so much better. You make _me_ wanna be someone better.” Bucky tries to pry his eyes away but fails despite himself, giving into the magnetic pull instead. “Dunno what I’d do without you, honey.” 

Bucky ducks down to brush their lips together, letting Steve taste his mouth and bite at his bottom lip. “I love you. You’re everything to me, too.” He pulls back far enough to rest their foreheads together. “Don’t you ever think I feel any less.” Steve gives a quick nod and brings him in for more kisses, short and sweet against his plump lips. “What’s got you so mushy, huh? This an anniversary thing?”

“Oh,” Steve’s cheeks color adorably, and Bucky cocks his head in intrigue. “No, I, uh- Well, I made you something for that.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows come together in a furrow. “Like a painting?”

Steve laughs, his voice low and amused. “No. Nothing special anyway.” It’s true, painting Bucky’s not that rare of an occasion, quite a few canvases featuring himself already littering the studio, not to mention all the sketches. “Thing is, I wanted to get you somethin’ from Val’s ‘cause I know how much you look forward to dinner there every year, but she doesn’t let you order in. So, um- I tried cooking you something greek.”

A soft smile slowly takes over Bucky’s face, gradually growing into a wide grin. Steve’s made plenty of things that Bucky can’t name, weird concoctions that surprisingly taste pretty damn good, but he’s always been confident in his creations. He’s never seen this unsure side of Steve in the kitchen. “That sounds perfect, Steve, thank you,” he rewards the blonde with a kiss, and one more on his chin. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Steve huffs. “It didn’t turn out so well.”

“Well, I’ll pretend to like it anyway,” Bucky pecks the bump on Steve’s nose. “And if it’s really that bad, I’ll accidentally throw it out and apologize profusely,” he sighs, heavy and dramatic. “I’m sure I can get you to forgive me. I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve’s eyes twinkle with interest. “How ‘bout you pull some of those tricks right now? Do a little apologizing in advance.” Bucky snorts, because the guy’s _still inside him, for fuck’s sake,_ but soon enough demonstrates just how easily Steve can forgive him.

◆

The apartment is perfect - and it’s in _Brooklyn_. If you ask him, that’s the best feature of the property. 

When Alice told him that she and Peter decided to move to New York, Bucky all but cried from joy. Okay, so he did get a little teary eyed, but no one has to know that. 

It didn’t take nearly as much convincing as he thought it would to get Alice to look for a place in Brooklyn, and the day has finally arrived: Moving Day. He’s had it circled in his calendar for long enough, and he’s pretty sure he’s more excited than the happy couple - and their third roommate Drax. Apparently the other bandmates are sharing an apartment in Queens.

“Bucky, where should we put this?” Pietro asks as he and Mal, another Roshar in his 40s, shuffle in carrying a well-loved leather couch. 

Bucky turns to Alice for instructions, and she quickly leads them to one side of the room. “Just here’s fine, thanks, guys.” They shrug off her gratitude, and go to move in more boxes and furniture. Alice has met them once or twice before - most likely during one of Steve’s block parties and when she stayed at their home last December - but Bucky wouldn’t say she knows them _particularly well_ , which is proven when she sidles up to Bucky thirty minutes later and asks, “How much is it for the moving truck? I need to go take out some cash.”

Bucky almost laughs, but decides to hold back and offer a smile instead. “There’s no charge, they’re happy to help.” Steve walks by towards the living room, carrying a cardboard box full of books, barely breaking a sweat. Such a show off. Bucky’s tempted to stick his tongue out at the guy.

Peter stops cutting open a heavy box marked _Pots n Pans_ midway through, scissors worryingly held open against his palm. Bucky reaches over and takes it away from him, ripping open the tape by hand instead. “They drove all the way down to Boston and back here. You can’t tell me that was for free?” 

“They’re friends of ours, Peter, don’t worry about it,” Bucky goes back to taking out kitchen odds and ends, and sets them aside.

“Bucky, if this is you paying for _more_ moving costs-” Alice threatens with an accusing finger. Bucky lifts both palms up in surrender. The suspicion is warranted, at least. He took care of paying to break their lease in Boston, and while Alice and Peter are equally pitching in for rent here, he’s helping Alice out with a portion of her half. 

He’d argue that paying for his sisters’ rent’s different, though, given he’s always done it. Just because Alice is sharing her bills with Peter now - and Drax, apparently - doesn’t mean he’s going to stop. It simply means the budgeted Alice expenses is now significantly lower - not that that’s much of a concern anymore seeing as he’s making much more than he used to.

“I’m not, I swear. Al, Mal’s got a hardware store, remember? He doesn’t rent out trucks.” _He’s also a Roshar_ , he wants to say, but bites his tongue in present company. Alice furrows her brows in search of whatever memory she’s got of making small talk with Mal, and finally lets it go. 

When Peter sees that Alice isn’t making more of a fuss about the issue, he flashes Bucky a blinding smile. “Thanks. Hiring a moving company is always such a hassle.”

Bucky gives him a friendly pat on the arm, doing his best to exude warmth. Peter’s grown on him lately, having watched him calm Alice down from one moving crisis or another. It doesn’t look like he’s someone who’s got a calming presence and is always ready to get down to task, but Bucky’s seen him handle every little obstacle with determination and actual applicable skills. And yeah, okay, him agreeing with Alice to move to Brooklyn might have endeared him a lot to Bucky. 

“Is that all?” Steve asks once the dining table is set up in the kitchen. 

Alice looks around, seeing all of their boxes present and accounted for. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks for the help, Steve,” she goes on her tiptoes to peck him on the cheek. 

“Of course,” Steve beams, a hint of a blush betraying how pleased he always is with any show of affection from a Barnes sister. He turns to Bucky, gesturing to Pietro and Mal where they’re pushing boxes to the side of the room to free up some floorspace. “The guys and I are gonna go talk to some people, I’ll be back in a bit.” 

Steve kisses him goodbye and goes to leave, but Bucky is quick to stop him in his tracks. “Whoa, hold on,” he grabs Steve’s arm, pulling him back around. “These are Alice’s neighbors,” Bucky reminds him in a slightly lower voice. “She might want to make some friends.” When Steve does nothing but wait him out, he sighs defeatedly. “ _Be_ _nice_ , okay?”

Steve grins down at him with an entirely unconvincing look of innocence, stormy baby blues lit up like he could do no harm. “Aw, Buck, I’m always nice,” the blonde grants him one more kiss, and motions for Pietro and Mal to head out with him. 

They call out goodbyes to everyone else, getting lots of exclamations of gratitude in return. “Where’d he go?” Peter asks, surely catching their conversation clearly enough, but confused nonetheless. 

Bucky gestures indistinctly, waving a hand in the air in the general vicinity of the building. “Not far.” 

Alice pulls on his arm and points him towards the large oak bookcase, a gift from Peter’s parents he’s been told, in some effort to get him to move it to its designated place in the corner of the living room. “Uh,” Bucky helplessly stares at the towering piece of furniture. “Why don’t we leave that for Steve?”

◆

△

Peter finds him out on the small balcony, halfway through a cigarette. He’d walked the Barnes siblings, now joined by Becca, a few streets down to visit their parents’ graves, and must have only just come back going by the windswept look of his hair. Knowing the kid, though, he might have used hair gel to style it that way. 

“Alice show you where the cemetery is?” Steve asks in greeting. The only reason Peter tagged along was because Alice wanted to show him the way, never having taken him there before, and so he could pick up some lunch when doubling back. 

Peter nods as he looks around at the very small garden they’ve managed to cram into the space. It’s really only five pots of plants, one of which looks to be dying, but at least they’re trying. Steve sure didn’t have anything close to this at their age. 

“It’s pretty close by,” Peter joins him against the railing. “I can see why Alice wanted to find a place around here.”

Steve smiles wryly. “I sure am partial to it.” 

“Yeah, the Barneses don’t seem to like to stray from home,” Peter breathes out heavily. “Alice has been so excited to be closer to her family. I’m sure Bucky is thrilled.” Steve watches Peter’s eyes scan the street below them, only a few blocks over from Becca’s apartment.

“Is that a problem?” Steve asks, trying to keep his tone unassuming.

Peter’s head whips up in mild surprise. “No!” he shakes his head. “Of course not. I’m really glad Alice and her siblings are so tight-knit. I, uh, don’t have that kind of relationship with my parents. It’s really nice to see.” Steve searches Peter’s face for any signs of insincerity but finds nothing but genuine wonder, and concedes that he’s being truthful.

“It was tough for-,” Steve clears his throat. “It can be hard for some families to be apart.” He pats Peter once on the back. “It’ll be nice to have the both of you around more often.”

“Yeah?” Peter’s voice is startlingly hopeful and unguarded, and Steve has to give it a second before he can bring himself to say anything.

He sighs, watching the flickering ember between his fingers. “Alice is very well loved. Anyone can see that you care about her too. You never know what’s gonna happen, but all you can control is doin' your best by the people you love. So long as you keep that up, you’ve got the rest of us too.”

Peter shifts on his feet. “You and Bucky?”

“Yeah, kid, me and Buck.” Steve takes a short drag and blows the smoke upwind. “What’d they think?” At Peter’s inquiring look, he adds, “Your parents. Brooklyn. Signing onto an indie label.” 

Peter laughs, something tinged with both actual amusement and a hint of bitterness. “Very happy for Star-Lord. They’ve always been supportive, in their own way.” Part of the reason Peter and his bandmates moved to New York is because they recently got signed, and he’s glad Peter’s got some kind of support system for his music career. “They, uh, offered us a place upstate, actually,” he confesses somewhat sheepishly. “It was kind of a shock when I told them we’ll be all the way down here but, well, it’s fine. It’s all good.”

“You didn’t want to live upstate?” Steve asks, curious about whether the choice to stay in Brooklyn is all because of Alice. Not that he’d have a problem with it if it is - being able to make sure of her well being is something both he and Bucky are extremely happy about with the move. Being in their territory sure makes that easier. 

“Nah, I wanted to get my own place, from the signing bonus, you know. Try to build some kind of life with it,” he rubs at his cheeks like he’s trying to hide, uncharacteristically bashful all of a sudden.

Steve turns to face the younger man. “When I was- Fuck, young, alright, when I was young. I tried making money from the arts, too,” he shares, finishing off his cigarette and putting it out. “I did portraits,” he explains, when Peter looks at him askance. “Tried living off of that kinda money, made me feel good, like it meant something.” He conveniently leaves out his other source of income in organized crime, but that’s not his point here. “Was like a rush.”

Peter gives him a soft smile, biting into his cheek. “Yeah, it sure is something.” It’s different for Peter, of course, knowing he has the financial safety net of his parents at all times. He’ll never have to know what it’s like to do whatever it takes to make it to the next meal, or to be able to afford a warm enough coat, but the satisfaction of having some proof that your art matters is at least something he can understand. “I’m lucky I’ve got someone like Alice. She understands putting so much of yourself into your work.”

“Well, athletes are particularly dedicated,” Steve huffs, and Peter grins in agreement. 

He offers up a smoke, but is turned down easily. “Don’t think Alice would appreciate me smoking those,” Peter shares, then tilts his head in thought. “Bucky doesn’t mind?” Steve lets the question settle onto him, and it almost makes him laugh. This is hardly his worst vice. Instead, he just shrugs and pockets the pack. 

“Come on, Buck said something about moving that bookcase of yours,” he leads them back inside, and considers himself successful in holding at least _one_ decent conversation with Peter Quill that isn’t an idle threat to steal the rims off his car - not that the kid even got his meaning last time. 

He wonders how Peter will fare in this neighborhood. Maybe Steve can gift the kid a guidebook to non-gentrified Brooklyn, starting with how to not park his luxury car by the curb.

▽

◆

Bucky stares at the tabloid, marveling over a picture perfect candid of the happy couple. Underneath, an amalgamation of rumors conclude to reports that _Thor Odinson (35), firstborn son of_ _Norwegian Ambassador Odinson, confirms engagement to Dr. Jane Foster (30)._

It’s almost been a whole year since they made it public to close friends and family. He has to admit that it’s pretty impressive for Thor to keep it under wraps for so long. 

Sure, the guy isn’t on Page Six every week, but he’s been one of the many socialites filling up their pages for decades, ever since his father first moved into Embassy Row. It didn’t take long for Thor to share his teenage years with the American public - whether he wanted to or not. If Bucky were the kind to pay attention to that kind of thing he would have recognized the kind, enigmatic blonde when they were first introduced.

He must have kept a tight lid on things if the engagement didn’t leak for so long. Then again, with everything Thor does behind the scenes, Bucky should be less surprised. Clearly, Thor’s more than capable of keeping secrets. 

“When did you start reading that crap?” Hal, the guy running the bodega, emerges from reading his own copy of yet another publication focused on celebrity news. Bucky wonders if he just truly doesn’t mind reading something deemed so worthless but would rather Bucky not have the same fate, or if he has _very_ specific preferences in his tabloids. 

Bucky huffs a laugh, switching over to picking up potato chips and ice cream for the night, Clara’s gum, and Dani’s lottery tickets. Hal easily adds Steve’s smokes to the pile, and is promptly ready with exact change. “They get one or two things right every once in a blue moon,” Bucky shrugs, motioning to Thor’s picture. 

Hal’s eyes drift towards the column he was just reading, as he starts filling up a bag with Bucky’s odds and ends. “So am I supposed to believe, hmm let’s see, here we go, ‘Captain Rogers seen on a cozy candlelight dinner date with young Hollywood star Saoirse Ronan.’” 

Hal cocks an eyebrow at him, but Bucky merely leans over to read the so-called scoop, and hums agreeably. “It’s close enough. Our resemblance is uncanny,” Bucky grins, unrepentant, and scurries out of there with his purchased goods before Hal can curse him out. 

The house is only occupied by a few people, which would be curious for a late afternoon if it weren’t for the sounds of yelling coming from the back room. He doesn’t need Ayisha to tell him where Steve and the guys are, given that he can hear them just fine, however indistinctly. 

Bucky walks into not so much a tense room as it is one overflowing with frustration. Rita’s already out of her chair and perched against the front of her desk, looking down at Clara and Dani on the couch while Steve paces the short length of the room. “I _told_ you that I’m bringing this up so you can turn them down,” Rita spares Bucky a glance when Sam lets him in. 

“No, you’re not,” Steve spits out, and Bucky doesn’t miss the angry flush to his face. Sam goes over to the armchair and leans on it, putting most of his weight on the padded leather back. “You’re dangling a lucrative opportunity in front of me in the hopes that I’ll forget it’s comin’ from the fucking Chicago Mob.” 

Ah, that explains how worked up Steve is. Nothing to get his blood boiling like those assholes.

Rita heaves a heavy breath, gripping the edge of her desk until her knuckles turn white. “It is _your_ choice what you want to do, I’m just giving you all your options!”

“That is such bullshit!” Steve tugs on the ends of his hair once before letting go, palms curled into fists at his side. “I never liked this goddamn truce, they’re gonna start thinkin’ that they can do whatever the fuck they want just because-”

“They _can’t_ do whatever they want, Steve! Like fuck am I letting them-”

“They offered to work a job together!” Steve explodes, hitting the side of a bookshelf hard enough that Bucky’s sure the whole house can hear it. Even without the burst of temper, the words would have sharpened Bucky’s attention and made his mouth tense into a hard line. He almost thinks he misheard if not for Steve’s volume. “That would _never_ have happened if-,” he takes a deep breath, rubbing at his eyes in some effort to calm down. “Rita,” Steve implores, looking put together at once, the only telltale sign of his bottled up rage the severity to which he’s grinding his teeth. “ _The Chicago Mob_ thought it was reasonable to _ask us to work a job_.” 

Rita doesn’t back down from Steve’s challenging stare. “I know, we-”

“Where do we draw the _fucking line_?!” Steve demands, and he and Rita share a look Bucky can’t comprehend. 

Bucky doesn’t even think about it before speaking up and asking, “I thought we didn’t like how they run their operation?” He can feel Dani freeze up beside him where Bucky’s situated himself on the arm of the couch.

Rita straightens up from her perch, and turns to him. “We don’t.” 

Bucky doesn’t have the kind of steel balls it takes to ask, “Then tell them to fuck off,” but Sam evidently does. “We make it clear that the only reason we haven’t touched their territory’s because they’re all the way in the fucking midwest.”

“We’re never going to _work_ with them,” Rita allows, “but we _want_ to keep the truce. It’s been doing us a lot of good.” Steve looks like he wants to give her a piece of his mind, but Rita sends him a silencing glare. “If and when they do anything that causes us trouble, we call it all off and there _will_ be consequences. But right now, this is what’s best for the Roshars.”

“The truce will make it easier to get shipment all the way here,” Clara chimes in, and Dani nods along. “They’ll look out for our cargo and maybe even fight off anyone else who tries for a raid.”

Rita is quick to assure Steve, “Make no mistake, I’ll make them regret even _asking_ us to partner up on this, but this isn’t where we cut ties. Not yet.”

“Then where do we cut ties, Rita?” Steve asks, his voice grave with the weight of knowing all that the Chicago Mob is capable of. Bucky doesn’t get to hear what Rita says, because she asks for the room and they leave her to talk privately with Steve.

“What was the job?” Bucky asks once they settle in the dining room. 

Dani sends him a look, brown eyes all knowing. “Does it matter?” He has a point. “What’s the calling card gonna be? The first Irish-Italian joint this side of the Atlantic?” Bucky is mindful of the low volume they’re maintaining, keeping their voices from carrying into the living room and the rest of the house.

“Rita’s not going to take them up on it, we already know that,” Clara slumps onto a chair and curls her legs to tuck them against the seat. “They just need to hash it out, you know how they are. Especially when it comes to the Chicago Mob,” she trails her eyes over all three of them, like she’s making sure they’re all on the same page. “Those two can always get around to communicating like adults, eventually.”

They can’t hear anything from the backroom anymore, but Sam still eyes the corridor warily. “Yeah, if neither of them pops a vein first.”

Bucky snorts a giggle at the image, and soon enough the rest of the guys are laughing lightly along with him. It’s always fascinating to him how the Roshars managed to weather someone of Steve’s authority coming back when they’ve already got a powerful head in place, one inadvertently appointed by Steve himself given that Rita inherited the role from the woman Steve left the Roshars with.

They didn’t just weather that transition, they blossomed under it, Steve and Rita somehow making it work between them to make the Brooklyn Irish stronger than ever. If it were any other organization - hell, Bucky was cynical too of how things would turn out for the Roshars and the neighborhood in those early days of Steve’s return - it’d be the kind of shake up that could make or break them. 

It’s a testament to the solid foundation of this family and organization that they came out the other side as formidable as ever. 

The guys are still trying to get it together when Steve and Rita join them, snickering into their hands. “What’s so funny?” Steve asks, draping his body against the back of Bucky’s chair and resting a pointy chin on his head. Bucky bats him away but pulls him in to rest against his side instead.

“Nothing,” Sam grins, the endearing gap between his teeth doing nothing to hide the mischief shining through his very being. Bucky has no doubts that Sam and the guys’ cementing their position beside Steve and Rita was a journey of its own, amongst all the restructuring and weeding out Steve spearheaded. With reestablishing the Roshars in Brooklyn and taking care of all the low level violent gangs that had popped up in recent decades, he can see how it was a precarious yet perfect time to make a name for yourself and demonstrate your value. 

Bucky wishes he can repay the universe for making sure that these are the people he ended up working alongside day in and day out, when it came time for him to join the team. He can’t imagine anyone else replacing these guys as his family.

Rita is understandably unconvinced by Sam’s smile, rolling her eyes and exchanging a look with Steve. She finally gets them all out of the house, dragging them along to a late lunch in that bizarre pocket of time when the sun is hanging low in the sky. Bucky swears none of the Roshars would know regular mealtimes if it bit them in the ass. Bucky makes sure to tell them just that as they make their way to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drax is the perpetual off screen third wheel. I can definitely relate.
> 
> Talk to me about your thoughts, I always look forward to hearing your comments!
> 
> Next chapter up soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …and now, the weather in Brooklyn.
> 
> Thanks as always to beta reader Meraki_Moli.

Steve holes himself up in the studio for eleven days. 

At first, Bucky leaves him there, knowing that Steve always needs time to get back to himself after getting deployed as Captain Rogers. Then the morning comes and Bucky wakes up alone, the man who’s supposed to be in bed with him still sprawled on the chaise amongst half-finished, month old canvases, his body hanging off the cushions and face haggard like he’d barely had a wink of sleep. 

After that, Bucky starts ushering Steve to bed every night, getting him settled until he makes it under the covers and checking that he’s eaten enough. Bucky figures it’ll just take some time. He’s had to coax Steve out of some low points after coming home before, and this is surely only a longer spell is all.

Bucky’s right - it simply takes time, but it’s not without enough bumps in the road to break his heart. He hates seeing Steve go through any of it, and he’d happily take over and shoulder the burden himself if he could. 

Bucky stays awake some nights wondering about the rationale behind sending an operative into the field, who’s clearly still struggling with PTSD from World War fucking II. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know how much Steve’s team knows about his health, and the weight he carries home after every single deployment. 

Waking up to Steve having thrown himself off the side of the bed to crouch low in the throws of a nightmare, spluttering in his sleep, is something he wishes they didn’t have to go through. Especially with how much the guy fights to go sleep in the studio after that, begging, “Please, Buck, this is why I didn’t come to bed, don’t wanna do this to you. Go back to sleep, I’ll go, honey, please just let me.”

Bucky puts up with none of it, of course. 

Steve can pull himself together in the studio all he wants - the one place he seems to feel safest and most like himself, the smell of paint and turpentine forever clinging to the rugs in that room making for a familiar and grounding environment - but there is no way in hell Bucky would leave him alone through the night. At the very least he has to make sure Steve gets some rest.

Going through the studio is worrying on its own, a haphazard enough part of the house that Bucky truly can’t tell what it is Steve’s done in there most of the day. Seeing the rumpled throw blankets on the chaise lets him hope that Steve’s gotten some real uninterrupted sleep, through naps in the sun soaked corner by the windows. 

It goes on for long enough that Bucky has to hand over more things than he usually would to Rita, who’s more than familiar with Steve at his lowest points that it hardly fazes her. The curt, “Just don’t let him get worse. Give me a call if he does, okay?” was both a comfort and incredibly distressing. How bad had Steve been in those early years?

When they come out the other side, Bucky doesn’t let Steve get a single word into his apology, silencing him with gentle kisses and stern words of love. He has no delusions about any of this not being part of the man he’s chosen to spend his life with. 

Bucky’s sticking around for all the ups and downs of their lives no matter what, exactly the way the older man has and will always have his back when the occasional crippling fear and worry over not being capable enough to take care of his sisters and keep them alive and happy sets in. 

“I love you, Steve, dark days and all,” Bucky says into the crown of Steve’s head where they’re curled together on the couch, a mountain of blankets cocooning their cozy corner - a colorful mix of hand knitted throws and worn in cotton quilts, the washed out prints faded and dull. 

Steve is eager to return the sentiment, nuzzling at his collarbone and wiggling in place to bury himself further into the tight hold of Bucky’s limbs. 

Bucky lets him feel held and squishy as much as he likes, content in letting an enveloping warmth wash over them in the heart of their home.

◆

Bucky has no excuse. Well, actually, he does have one, it’s just extremely flimsy - _oh, yeah, let me run down and hand deliver that carburetor myself, not like I’ve got things to do_. Whatever. At least Grieves only side-eyed him for half a second, when he abandoned doing maintenance on his motorbike, to run an errand that needed him to go all the way to the junkyard. 

Here’s the thing: Bucky’s been working for the Roshars for give or take four and a half years by now, and he has never been to their Brooklyn junkyards. He realized why, of course, once they ran into Logan last year. Nobody wanted to tell Steve’s new guy to go and talk to his ex. 

Fuck, maybe Steve himself even gave the order to have Bucky steer clear of the task. He wouldn’t be mad if he did. He appreciates not being ambushed by that predicament early on in their relationship, but it’s been years now, and he’s got no issues working with Steve’s ex. He can handle this. 

Bucky’s a _mature adult_ , dealing with your partner’s ex should be easy. 

The next thing he knows, Bucky finds himself at one of the smaller junkyards, lugging around a goddamn engine part as he looks around for someone to deliver it to - like a dumbass. 

It’s a pretty big property, so you would think in the 15 minutes he’s been aimlessly lumbering around like an idiot, he’d run into at least _one_ living soul, but alas, after endless rows of, well, junk, the place reveals itself to be pretty much a ghost town.

It’s not until he gets to the very back of the lot, that he hears two distinct voices and, weirdly enough, the crackling of a radio. “All I’m saying,” a deep female voice singsongs, “is that it’s time to retire the old jacket and find a much classier replacement.” 

Bucky rounds a corner to find a blonde woman holding up what looks to be an old magazine, which does feature quite the handsome leather jacket. Bucky almost doesn’t want to point out that it probably hasn’t been in stores since the early 2000s, if he were to guess by young and fresh Katie Holmes on the cover of the issue.

The back section of the junkyard is a converted two story workshop that doubles as a living area - at least as far as he can tell - tools across worktables with random areas designated to hot plates, microwaves, and percolators. Two couches are wedged amongst all the mismatched chairs and stools, where everyday knick knacks are littered around the room. Logan himself, in a dark, stained t-shirt and work pants, is leaning back on a folding chair right across from the woman.

She’s quick to notice him and nod a hello, which is when Logan drops his chair onto all four legs from its precarious balancing act. “Barnes,” he greets, slowly getting up and turning to face him.

“Grieves wanted me to bring this over,” Bucky hauls the carb onto a nearby table, the sound loud in the ensuing silence. The excuse to drop by sounds even sillier than it did before, and he feels something much too close to shame creep in. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” is apparently what makes it out of his mouth.

The woman had lit up in recognition at his name, and comes over to offer a handshake without hesitation. “Bucky Barnes, we haven’t gotten around to meeting.” Her grip is just on this side of too hard, palms dry and marked with cramped scribbles of notes. “I’m Carol Danvers. I think you’ve met my wife, Maria.”

“Oh!” It takes him no time at all to remember Captain Rambeau, the warm, loving pilot he’s talked to a handful of times. “How is Maria? I hope she and your daughter are doing well.”

Carol looks pleased that he remembers her family, and he wonders why they haven’t run into each other before. “They’re great, thanks.” Bucky sees Logan pick up the carburetor and bring it around the table to a pile of parts set aside, presumably for later inspection. Carol clears her throat, grabbing her messenger bag and a beaten up notebook that’s bursting at the seams. “Logan, I can grab the Toyota, yeah? Dale’s going to pay it off through Roy.” 

Logan grunts an assent, pointing her over to an aisle on the far end of the lot. Carol is quick in saying her goodbyes, though he can feel her eyes linger on the back of his neck for a second too long. “Thanks for bringing this over, kid,” Logan absentmindedly tosses the carb in his hands a couple times, nodding his thanks. “Saved me a trip.” 

“Uh, yeah.” This errand is so _stupid_. Bucky feels like banging his head against a wall. Steve is going to get such a kick out of this when he tells him what he spent the afternoon doing. “You work with Carol a lot? I thought Maria’s wife was a lawyer.”

Logan moves over to the percolator, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He wordlessly offers Bucky a mug of his own, and he gratefully accepts. 

The drink is thick and strong, yet cloyingly sweet. Bucky kind of loves it. “Yeah, she is. She’s on the Kani job, getting them settled.” He gestures with the full cup, coffee barely staying within the rim. “Papers, housing, and, well, a couple of essentials like cars for families.”

“Right,” Bucky blinks, having heard Rita talk about it. He supposes the junkyard, where most Roshars go to find any and everything they might need, is a frequent visit for someone like Carol who deals with getting resources and necessities for her clients.

Logan heaves a sigh, and takes a seat at the table between them. “What are you doing here, kid?”

Bucky takes it as his cue to find somewhere to sit, and ends up settling on the folding chair Logan vacated when he arrived. He places his drink on the long slab of metal, a hollow _clink_ ringing through the air between them. “Seemed foolish that we haven’t worked together in all this time,” Bucky shrugs, and rests his elbows on either side of the mug, fiddling with the cracked handle. “Haven’t even been here before today.”

Logan leans back, legs spread in a sprawl, his body language clearly projecting the little control he has over the subject at hand. “Steve’s always liked drawing his lines.”

“That he did.” Bucky’s lips twitch in some ugly and twisted satisfaction at knowing that’s not the case anymore, that Steve’s worked to get out of his comfort zones and Bucky was the one to witness it instead of Logan. Ugh, he needs to get a grip. There’s no reason for being so petty.

Logan hums like he can hear the less than generous thoughts swirling through his mind, and Bucky averts his eyes in an attempt to avoid the other man seeing right through him. 

Can he tell that Bucky’s cataloging every nook and cranny of the place to wonder if Steve used to curl up there with a cigarette and watch Logan work? Once he starts, he can’t stop himself. Did Steve put up with that horrendous looking hot plate to cook his weird snacks? Did Logan use to have a teapot next to his coffeemaker that he’s since gotten rid of?

His gaze wanders the space, more likely than not subconsciously looking for something to beat himself over the head with, when Thor and Jane’s wedding invite catches his eye. The golden trim winks in the light, like it’s trying to catch his attention from under the abandoned magazine.

Logan must notice, because he asks, gruff and straightforward, “I’m assuming you and Steve are going? I know he and Thor are still close.” _He_ didn’t know that Logan and Thor were friends, though come to think of it, it shouldn’t be a surprise.

Bucky rubs a finger over the traces of an old slogan printed on the side of his mug, now worn down to the letters M and N. “Yeah, we are. My sister is a bridesmaid actually, and Jane’s my friend.” Logan nods along like he already knew that. Maybe he did, the way Thor’s been sharing his wedding planning with all his friends. “And you’re right, Steve isn’t going to miss Thor’s wedding.”

Logan reaches over to grab a rag and wipe down the space between them, cleaning it of a small puddle of spilt coffee. Bucky soon realizes he’s using the action to keep himself busy, when he asks, “How’s he doing? The news said his last deployment was pretty rough, he can get-,” a large callused hand comes up to rub against a stubbled cheek, betraying a hint of worry and possibly even encroaching nerves. “How’s he holding up?”

Bucky finds genuine concern in the man’s features, eyebrows pulled low over dark eyes that search his face in return. “He’s okay. Well, he’s better now.” Logan’s shoulders loosen infinitesimally as if letting go of some tension, something he wouldn’t have caught if they weren’t watching each other so closely, and Bucky can’t help but ask, “You keep tabs on him?” 

A wry smile makes it onto Logan’s face, and he laughs, dry and humorless. “News about Steve Rogers is pretty unavoidable, don’t you think?” Bucky ducks his head, guilty of maybe letting a tiny part of him that’s jealous of whatever relationship and connection Steve had with this other man rear its head. “Besides,” Logan holds his gaze, “can’t really escape the guy that’s your boss one way or another, right?"

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut, but doesn’t find it in himself to tear his eyes away.

He can’t help but feel like Logan’s got his number, like he might be able to read Bucky’s mind solely by virtue of sharing the experience of having been closest to and had a personal relationship with the oldest and arguably most powerful of the Roshars - even if it is different versions of Steve that they fell in love with. 

His suspicions are further raised when Logan breaks the silence to tell him, “You know, you can always find whatever help you need here, like everybody else. Don’t have to wait for whoever to bring you over and make introductions.”

Bucky huffs a light laugh, flashing a small but grateful smile. “I came here on my own, didn’t I?”

◆

△

The small restaurant in the middle of the park is surrounded mostly by walls made up of windows, almost like the dining room is open air if it weren’t for the building’s structural bones. 

As they make their way towards it, those very windows look straight into a nine year old’s birthday party, crawling with kids and their parents. Bucky hitches the wrapped box further up in his arms, as if using it as a makeshift shield against the swarm.

Steve laughs at his boyfriend’s sudden trepidation, low and amused, into the dark curls falling over the side of his head. “Come on, Buck,” he caresses the sensitive skin of his jaw, burying carefully manicured fingers into the impossibly soft hair by his collar. “You’ve seen worse.” The look Bucky shoots him says that that might not be true. 

The birthday girl greets them herself as soon as they enter through the doors, hopped up on sugar and screeching a loud, “Steeeve!” Scott hurries over to scold her for all but leaping into someone’s arms without warning, but Steve unreservedly gives her a squeeze and puts her down with warm birthday wishes.

Bucky ruffles her bouncy curls, handing over the present carefully and kissing her cheek with his own, “Happy birthday, Cassie.” Steve imagines for a brief moment what twenty year old Bucky was like, throwing his fourteen year old baby sister a birthday party to the best of his abilities.

Cassie beams up at the both of them, shaking the box in her hands in a futile attempt to guess at its contents. As soon as she determines the pointlessness of her endeavor, she doesn’t hesitate to confidently announce that it’s time to open all her presents. 

“Shoulda never gone with that triple chocolate ice cream cake, I swear to god,” Scott mutters as they follow the girl of the hour over to the main table, where most of the kids appear to be congregating. Steve grasps Scott’s shoulder in sympathy, the man looking harried and, to be frank, like he’s strung out on a sugar high himself. 

A few of the adults corral the kids into some kind of organized group around Cassie, as she starts opening presents, oohing and aahing over one item or another. Scott is a hit with the younger guests, probably that Avengers sheen making them at least listen to his instructions, though there’s certainly a weird dissonance of Scott’s relatively new celebrity status with the old perception of the man. The adults seem to struggle even more with straddling that line, Steve can’t help but notice.

He and Bucky skirt the room until they find Tony and Bruce, both of whom are gorging on cake - neither have chosen to indulge in the spread of finger foods for adults. 

Bruce smiles in greeting, mouth still full of his latest bite, but Tony chooses to welcome them with a shocked, “Wow, you really do like Scott’s kid. Even Clint and Natasha didn’t come to this.”

Before Steve can come up with a barbed retort, Bucky decides to cut him off at the pass, voice dripping with sincerity, and looks around at the restaurant decorated in streamers in all colors of the rainbow. “Butterfly cupcakes, a crafts table, _and_ an endless loop of Disney songs? It’s practically date night. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He can see Bruce hide a frosting covered laugh behind a napkin, but Tony simply looks them in the eye and suggests, “You two need to liven things up a bit.” 

“I think we’re doing just fine, Tony.” Steve kisses Bucky’s hair for no other reason than because he can, lips spreading into a smile without any conscious decision on his part.

They turn their attention to Cassie, who’s gotten around to tearing open their gift. Steve had wanted to get her a really nice box set of colored pencils, and Bucky got down to task and bought the full set of 120 Faber Castell Polychromos pencils, complete with the beautiful wooden box. 

He hears an audible gasp from the crowd when Cassie opens the lid to uncover two tiers of colors, and is undeniably a bit smug about how well received the present is. He can’t believe he’s getting competitive at a nine year old’s birthday. It’s completely ridiculous, even for him.

Cassie leaves her gift to the prying eyes of her friends to bound over to them, hugging both Steve and Bucky in her gangly arms. “Thank you, thank you! It’s so pretty!” 

Steve can feel himself practically melt as he looks down at the blonde, and gently brushes the side of her head with large, almost ungainly hands. “You’re welcome, Cassie.” When she only tightens her hold on them, he prompts, “You wanna go open the rest of your presents?” Cassie nods, and returns to her mountain of shredded wrapping paper. 

“I got her a full custom Lego set, and _you_ get all the praise?” Tony whines, scowling with hardly any venom in his voice and a smear of ice cream on his bottom lip. Bruce easily wipes it away with a clean napkin. 

Huh. If _Tony’s_ also getting worked up about winning at presents, Steve might want to reevaluate his own priorities. 

Before he can get down _that_ undoubtedly dark rabbit hole, someone approaches them with a hand already outstretched. “Captain, that was a very generous gift, thank you.” It takes him seeing Scott’s ex-wife, Maggie, by his side to gather that this must be her husband. “I’m Officer Paxton, it’s nice to finally meet you.” His grin is wide, sparkling white teeth on display a harsh contrast to the gelled waves of his jet black hair.

Steve puts on a genial smile, taking the man’s hand and returning the sentiment. Cassie _does_ mention her step-dad occasionally, and he’s always sounded like a decent enough guy. It might have slipped his mind that he was a fucking cop, though. 

It’s clear that Paxton doesn’t know who Steve is besides his role in the Avengers, even with Maggie clutching his arm like she wants to drag them as far away from this little group as possible. 

He understands her apprehension well enough - it’s one thing to tell your husband that the father of your child is working for the Roshars led by Steve Rogers, and it’s another to share that information with your husband who happens to be in the police force. Maggie’s fear most likely stems not entirely from Steve himself as a person, but also from the possible suspicion that she’s shared anything incriminating with an officer. 

“Cassie’s a great kid, she deserves something special,” Steve’s hand finds its way onto Bucky’s lower back. “Buck picked out just the thing.” 

Paxton looks over at Bucky, only a brief flash of confusion and wonder at who he is making itself known for half a second. It’s a look Steve knows Bucky’s gotten many times over the years. Most people connect the dots quickly enough, the smattering of grainy pictures featuring Steve Rogers and a young brunet man on some beach vacation or the once in a blue moon public appearance apparently enough to fill in the blanks when encountered with them in person. 

“Well, thank you, then,” Paxton nods at him, and then suddenly stumbles when an energetic boy, someone who must be one of Cassie’s classmates, barges into their circle.

He bounces on the balls of his feet, looking up at Steve with pleading eyes and asks, “Captain America, will you get me colored pencils too? Please?” 

Steve can’t suppress the laughter that spills out of him, and Bruce and Tony aren’t immune to it either. The moment is broken, however, by Maggie none too gently yanking the boy backwards and away from Steve with a harsh and panicked, “Kyle!”

Steve does his best not to react, through he’s grateful for the affectionate way Bucky tangles their fingers together. Sometimes he thinks Bucky can warm him from the inside out with nothing but a single fleeting touch. “It’s alright,” he pastes on a calming expression and tries to reassure Maggie, who’s got a death grip on Kyle to keep him from rushing back over to the three Avengers. 

“Kyle, go back to your mom-,” Maggie tries to usher him away. 

“But-”

Steve lowers himself to Kyle’s eye-line, and diplomatically tells him, “I don’t have anymore colored pencils, Kyle, but maybe you can ask your mom for them on your next birthday.” Viscerally flashing back to the hefty price tag on the box set Cassie got, he adds, “She might have other, better ideas, though, so listen to what she’s got to say, okay?”

Hearing that Captain America _isn’t_ there to hand out gifts like a certain red robed jolly old friend, Kyle scurries back to the crowd, and leaves the adults to themselves. 

Steve doesn’t want to stay too long, well aware of Maggie’s discomfort with his presence, so they hang around only to chat for a short while with Scott and say goodbye to Cassie, leaving in less than an hour. 

He can feel Bucky sag against his side as they leave, and he can understand why - Bucky loves Cassie as much as Steve does, but being in such close quarters with a cop that was a smidge too eager to rub elbows with Captain Rogers, a Stark munching down on one sugary snack or another, and twenty or so children, is a bit much. 

Walking out into the crisp and cold November afternoon is quite literally a breath of fresh air, and Bucky snuggles into the soft fabric of Steve’s coat. “You know, we’ve got leftover apple strudel and a complete set of Disney movies at home. What do you say?”

Steve snorts a laugh, wrapping a large arm round those slender shoulders and rubbing them for warmth. “Only if you let me get my paints out.” Bucky’s all too eager to comply, knowing that posing for Steve always means some degree of undress. 

Sounds like a perfect date night, indeed.

▽

◆

It turns out that Bucky chose the perfect time to finally visit Logan after all, because for the past few weeks, he’s been swamped with handling the logistics between Grieves’ garage and the junkyards. He can only imagine how much messier things would be if he hadn’t already established a working relationship with Logan - even if all he’d done was deliver a measly carburetor. 

He must look particularly frustrated from the latest of countless never ending phone calls, because Clara tosses him a conciliatory egg roll with a sympathetic twist of her lips. “More pushback?” 

“I don’t know how many more times I need to tell them to sit on their asses and wait, before they get it through their goddamn heads,” Bucky shoves half of the egg roll into his mouth, biting down with a vengeance. The Roshars recently pulled a big auto theft job, but what that means is staggering transport of the stolen vehicles and the process of taking them apart. “Both Grieves _and_ Logan are at max capacity, the fuck do they expect? For their guys to grow extra limbs and work double time?”

Clara nods along, knowing that what he needs is to vent and get this off his chest. “They’re keeping everything in the warehouses right? Don’t let them get antsy enough that they send the cars off somewhere else.”

Bucky’s eyes widen in fear. “They can _do_ that?”

“I mean,” Clara shrugs, grabbing a glass of water and downing a couple pills, “they won’t, Grieves and Logan would string them up if they even tried, but the thought probably crossed some of their minds.” 

Dani lumbers over, carrying perfectly baked madeleines and swatting Clara’s ear as soon as he puts the platter down. “Don’t scare him like that,” he scolds her, uncaring of how she rubs at the shell of her ear with a wince. “They won’t, Bucky,” Dani assures him. “Used to happen with some of the old guys before Steve came back, but that shit doesn’t fly anymore. No one’s going rogue.”

Even with Dani’s calming tone, the worry niggles into the back of his mind, and he vows to check in with anyone who sounded desperate enough to move their merchandise, and maybe put the fear of god in them - or, to be more accurate, the fear of the Roshars. 

“I’ll make sure Logan keeps track of everything that comes through,” he mumbles to himself, making a note to keep an eye on every single vehicle. 

The worry’s probably for naught, everyone on the job well aware that protocol exists for a reason, and undeniably loyal to boot. Impatience just seems to come with this line of work, even if their operation is without a doubt as liable for needing a 3 to 5 business day wait to get most things done as any other legal corporation. He swears sometimes he feels like HR. 

Clara clears her throat, nibbling on the scalloped edge of a madeleine fresh from the oven. “I didn’t know you and Logan were friends.” Bucky pulls himself out of his work, focusing on Clara’s not so subtle probing.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t know that we’re _friends_.” He watches as Clara and Dani exchange a look, and huffs. “Were you guys keeping us from working together? Because we’re _fine_.”

Clara keeps her eyes trained on anything _but_ him, so Dani’s left to face his disapproving stare. “It wasn’t you, Bucky. Logan and Steve were kind of, well, a bit of a mess-,” he uncharacteristically fidgets.

“I know that,” Bucky furrows his brows. Did he know that? He knows that _Steve_ wasn’t at his best when he was with Logan, and that the other man had his own issues too, but did he have the impression that their _relationship_ \- from the way Dani’s making it sound - was volatile? 

“Maybe you should talk about this with Steve,” Dani sighs.

“Are you guys not close with Logan anymore?” It’s gotta be the case that Sam and the guys spent a considerable time with the man, but it doesn’t sound like that’s still the case. 

Almost as if on cue, Steve and Sam come home from their meeting with Rita, lugging what is apparently more paperwork for their auto theft business’s latest venture. “Hey, Buck,” Steve greets him with a kiss, crouching low to where he’s seated on the couch and unfazed by the tail end of the conversation he must have caught, just in time. “What are you guys talking about? Did you visit the junkyard again today?”

“Nah, it’s not that. I’ve been busy dealing with Grieves and Logan and helping them hold off the hoard. You’d think everyone would hold their horses knowing the money’s gonna trickle down all at the same time anyway,” Bucky grumbles. Steve hums along, rubbing at his hairline like he’s preemptively willing away Bucky’s inevitable migraine. He has to hide a burgeoning smile because it’s a little dumb, but kind of sweet. 

“You’ve been hanging out at the junkyard?” Sam’s eyebrows fly up in disbelief, and he can tell it’s not entirely because of Bucky’s recent adventures. He can practically feel Clara and Dani’s befuddlement, thrown off by his and Steve’s mundane tone at the subject of Logan.

Bucky rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know what they expected. Those two dated years before Bucky even met Steve. “No, I just had to go over there a while back as a favor to Grieves.” Perhaps not the most faithful retelling, seeing as he volunteered, but close enough.

Sam looks to be searching for something to say, eyeing the both of them, but Steve pays him no mind and drops the pile of records he and Sam came in with. “First batch,” he announces, and Dani and Clara groan in unison. With every spare part coming from this take bringing in a hefty sum, they’re combing over it all, every single statement on goddamn circuit breakers and taillights, with a second pair of eyes - just to make sure everything is accounted for and no one’s skimming off the top. 

“Well, I’ve got training with Jessica, so have fun with that,” Bucky shoots everyone else a smug grin, leaping out of his seat when Clara flicks leftover crackers at him in retaliation.

“Oh, come on, you can’t get out of all this that easy,” Sam whines, throwing a protesting glare at Steve like a goddamn tattletale.

Bucky turns on his heel to face his boyfriend, grabbing onto those broad shoulders to look up at stormy baby blues through fluttering lashes. “Jessica’s waiting for me, Steve. You know I’m her only connection to the outside world,” not true, but to sweeten the deal he adds a sly, “I’ll make it up to you later,” and kisses Steve’s chin and the corner of his mouth. 

Steve leans in and deepens the kiss, curling his tongue and rubbing his bearded cheeks against Bucky’s deliciously. “Sure, honey, you can join us later,” he pecks Bucky once more on his cheekbone, voice syrupy sweet and a little rough. 

He saunters away with a wink sent Sam's way, and Bucky swears he sees the man’s eye twitch.

They’re mostly messing with Sam, of course - Bucky’s plans with Jessica had been on the calendar for a while. Though at the end of the day, he _did_ escape at least a couple hours of paperwork, so maybe the middle finger Bucky’s getting is warranted after all. 

Well, he can’t help the perks that come with sleeping with the guy who calls the shots.

◆

Jessica actually is waiting for him at the gym, ready to whip his ass into shape. He has to admit, she’s been an excellent teacher, if sometimes a hair too blunt and short tempered. It’s all good, though, because while Jessica’s training him to hold his own in a brawl, he’s helping her hone those rarely used social skills. It’s really a win-win.

Today, she’s taught him how to restrain and haul away a guy twice his size, and the subtext is so heavy it’s all but spelled out: this is how you physically keep Steve Rogers from doing some dumbass bullshit that’d get him killed - or at the very least seriously injured. 

Bucky thinks he has slightly better persuasion tactics, but hey, he’ll keep this method tucked in his back pocket in case the need comes up. 

“And then, when you’ve got the bullheaded asshole blonde calm and cooled off, or you know, whoever,” Jessica gets up from her crouch, stretching her arms to their very limits, “you give him a piece of your mind.” She looks him up and down, then tacks on, “Or whatever it is you did to rope him in in the first place - theoretically.”

“Uhuh,” the corner of Bucky’s lips tick up half an inch, unable to tamp down on his amusement. Truth be told, he finds it incredibly sweet that Jessica worries so much about Steve, even if it is over his own stupidity that takes over when anger seeps out any trace of sense left in his bones. If anything, it categorically means she knows him pretty fucking well.

It honestly just goes to show how much Steve reaching out and very slowly but surely eroding Jessica’s walls - through two minute talks in the dead of night in an empty gym, no less - means to the woman. 

Bucky feels a burgeoning tenderness in his gut, at yet another side of Steve that’s undeniably caring and attentive to those around him. Many can see it, too, sometimes on the surface, how soft the guy is with that low, gentle voice always ready to provide some level of comfort, but oftentimes it can be all too easy to bury under the layers upon layers of armor Steve puts on the moment he leaves his house. 

“Noted,” Bucky pulls himself upright, wincing at how sore his thighs are after an hour-long session. 

Jessica grabs her bottled water, gulping down half of it before asking, almost tentatively, “Are you going to Tapped after this?”

Bucky has to fight himself not to show gleeful surprise. That sounds pretty much like she’s asking him to hang out. Maybe she’s angling to go see Luke - who knows what the deal is with those two these days - but it certainly sounds like she’s interested in his company too.

His heart plummets when Bucky realizes he can’t stick around. The _one_ time Jessica Jones wants to be a social human. “I can’t, I’ve got work,” he tells her guiltily, trying to infect as much remorse as possible into his words. “Steve and everyone’s waiting for me-”

“It’s fine,” Jessica shrugs, wiping down sweat with a small towel, and pulling at a loose thread on her tank top. “What about next week?”

This time, Bucky can’t hold back on the delight. He’d been afraid that this would discourage Jessica from asking again, but _of course_ she defied all expectations. She never stops doing that. “Yes!” he all but shrieks in excitement. “Perfect. I’ll pencil it in.”

Jessica rolls her eyes, though he can’t miss the blush on the apples of her cheeks. “It’s just lunch, Bucky, calm down.”

Bucky scoffs, and goes over to poke her in the upper arm. “It’s lunch somewhere that _isn’t_ an empty gym or your dingy living room, so let me be happy with it already.” Jessica bats his finger away and worms out of his space, but she doesn’t actually look upset so Bucky’s not worried. She sticks her tongue out at him, like she isn’t a fully grown adult, and leaves him for the showers - wordless and abrupt as always. Well, baby steps.

Bucky gathers his things and leaves their secluded corner, off the mats and towards the front. He figures he can shower at home. The water pressure’s shit at the gym anyway.

It’s only because Jessica always has them train in the back where it’s only accessible through a side corridor, that Bucky overhears porch kid and his jumpy friend where they must be lingering by the entrance. 

He doesn’t try to muffle his steps, but the corridor’s pretty out of the way, and apparently sound only carries one way in the building’s weird 60s architecture. “When you said you knew a place, I didn’t think you meant here!” the unfamiliar voice squeaks. 

“Relax, it’s just like any other gym.” Pete actually does sound like there’s not a care in the world, the shuffling of picking up keys and checking in at the more often than not vacant reception in the hall doing nothing to disguise their talking. 

Bucky almost falters, unsure if he should laugh, when Pete’s friend hisses, “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You don’t fuck with the Irish Mob, Pete.”

“Miles,” Pete sighs, and Bucky swears his voice sounds a tiny bit strangled.

“America was right, wasn’t she?” Miles, apparently, suddenly sounds steady, the fitful note that was there before all but distinguished. “You _are_ tangled up with them.” Pete must be trying to convey something without verbally saying anything, because Miles scoffs, “You’re not even Irish!”

At that, Bucky actually does snort in amusement, and even Pete’s huff of, “That’s not-,” sounds tickled before he gets cut off.

“Jesus fuck, Pete, what were you thinking?” It stands to reason that Miles doesn’t know how far back in Pete’s family history working for the Roshars actually goes, yet it’s still such a weird question to hear. What was he thinking? Mostly how to keep the water running, probably.

Bucky finally makes it to the mouth of the hall, emerging through the side and startling the bejeezus out of both porch kid and a lanky, reasonably toned guy around Pete’s age. “Whoa, hey, just passing through,” Bucky raises his arms in warning, when Pete’s friend flinches so hard he knocks off the tiered shelves of pamphlets sitting on the edge of the table. 

“Miles,” Pete groans a sigh, already bending over to pick up after the mess. 

Bucky sets down his bag and lends a hand, grouping the flyers and putting the shelves back to rights. “Sorry,” Miles mutters, surprisingly deft at returning everything back in its place efficiently, and without knocking anything else over. Bucky’s not sure if he would have been as quick and organized when trying to fix the carefully stacked bookshelf at the other end of the desk. 

“You guys okay?” Bucky asks, and is careful to catch Pete’s eyes to see if he was bothered by his friend’s impromptu game of 20 questions. 

Pete gives him a reassuring grin, bright and unfaltering. “Yeah, we’re fine.” Bucky gives it another beat before he leaves them to it, giving the friend an easy nod and heading out. 

He’s got no doubts that porch kid can handle it - he’s in college now, and unlike Bucky’s freshman self, Pete actually knows what he’s doing.

◆

Bucky’s half a second away from bashing the guy’s head in, when he catches sight of the lanyard around his neck boasting the Stark Industries logo.

“Shit,” the man curses under his breath, flinching when he catches sight of the bat Bucky goes to put away. Bucky suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not even that threatening looking - he’s finally got Steve to doodle vines and flowers all over it in black and gold sharpie. It’s cute is what it is. “Sorry, man, I think I got the wrong house,” he takes a step back and flits his eyes down the street, looking dubious.

Bucky sighs, eyeing the package grasped almost desperately in the guy’s hands. “Delivery from Stark?”

“Uh,” Bucky watches as he looks down at the wrapped gift basket, then back up in confusion. “I really don’t think I’m at-”

“For Steve Rogers?” Bucky raises an eyebrow. When he nods wordlessly, Bucky gestures him closer. “Do I gotta sign something?”

He shifts the package around, like he’s unsure of what to do and literally weighing out the pros and cons. “No, I’m not- I’m Pepper’s assistant, she said to- Oh! Are you Mr. Barnes?” He sets down the gift basket and pulls out a tiny notebook, half of the lined pages curling like it’s been drenched in something and left to dry, held closed by a thick, dark pink rubber band. 

“Yeah, I’m Bucky Barnes.”

The guy smiles, broad and bright, going in for a handshake. “I’m Pepper’s assistant, Harley. She’s been giving me more personal tasks, more Avengers duties than SI. That’s, um, where I work. You must be Captain Rogers’ PA.” 

Bucky’s helpless to return the greeting and nod along to the speedy introduction, only a little jarred by his title. It’s been a while since he’s had to tell anyone his official job. “Oh. Nice to meet you. So this is from Pepper?”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Harley pockets the notebook, bending down to pick up the package and hand it over. “Said it was for the holidays. Uh, Happy Hanukkah?” Hanukkah ended in early December this year, so it’s passed for a few days, but he actually appreciates the thought that Pepper put into not disturbing them during time presumably spent with family. 

Before Bucky can return the lackluster holiday wishes, Steve walks up from the curb and cuts in with furrowed brows and distractingly pursed lips. “Can I help you?” he asks Harley, who somehow simultaneously perks up and shrinks at Steve’s presence. 

Steve’s wrapped up in a particularly bulky sweater and hoodie combo, having wanted to keep warm when he had to run to the house for a quick meeting. The cozy attire almost makes him look small, snuggled in all that wool and cotton. Bucky wants to rub his face all over those arms. 

“This is Harley, Pepper’s assistant, she sent us a gift basket for the holidays,” he pulls Steve to his side, hoping maybe he’ll stop treating Harley like a hostile. It only leads Steve to shift his suspicions to the wrapped package instead, like it isn’t clearly in the shape of fruits, blocks of cheese, and fancy luxury bottles of - something. Bucky doesn’t quite understand why you’d package a gift basket in opaque wrapping paper. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” he prompts.

Steve huffs in annoyance, but acquiesces easily enough, tearing his attention away from the delivery and greeting him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Don’t stay out here too long, it’s not warm enough,” he murmurs, warming up Bucky’s hands and kissing them once before leaving to head inside with the heavy holiday parcel.

Bucky finds Harley staring at him wide-eyed, and he abruptly realizes Pepper must have not mentioned anything else about him aside from his job. “Thanks for bringing this over, Harley, maybe we’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” Harley blinks at him, face still caught in between bewilderment and something else Bucky can’t put his finger on. “Uh, yeah, see you.” 

Steve’s already unpacking the basket in the kitchen, putting away all the food and drinks in their very specific designated shelves. No matter how much groceries they have squirreled away in their house, Steve always has everything in its perfect place. 

“How was the meeting?” he asks, pinching some gelt and unwrapping them to munch on. Their own bucket of gelt had all been devoured by the last night of Hanukkah, all gone thanks to the efforts of the Barnes sisters, Peter, and Steve. 

Bucky was understandably upset when all he was left with was a small bowl of less than a dozen pieces. He’s going to have to properly express his gratitude to Pepper before he forgets. 

Steve tilts his head one way then another, rearranging a few bottles of liquor to fit in the new additions. “It was fine. Gen and Roy will go. Pietro can’t be gone for that long, what with Erica, so he backed out.”

Bucky hums along, figuring as much. “And everyone else?”

“Sorted,” Steve shrugs, returning to his side and leaning in to lick chocolate off his lips. “Did you know that Harley kid?” When Bucky shakes his head, vaguely confused about why Steve’s asking, he goes on with a disgruntled, “Seemed a little risky to open the door unarmed.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, sucking on the tips of his fingers to clean them. “You know I always have my bat, I’ve learned some real moves with the thing, and I can hold my own, Steve.” He turns in the larger man’s hold to actually wash his hands in the sink, ignoring the muttered protests against the side of his neck. “Besides, I learned from the best.”

Steve bodily shifts them around until he can pick Bucky up and set him on top of the counter, hands running up his sides and beneath the thin t-shirt. “Me?” he beams, eyes soft and pleased.

Bucky snorts in amusement. “Please, I obviously meant Jessica.” Steve tickles him in retaliation, not letting up until Bucky’s crying out in agony and begging for him to stop. “Jessica, huh? Was she the one tearing this place up with a goddamn bat, Buck? She taught you that?”

Bucky giggles and kisses Steve just to shut him up, letting himself get lost in the sliding of their lips, tasting bittersweet cocoa on the other man’s tongue. “Fuck, sweetheart, you taste so sweet,” Steve rumbles against his jaw, peppering the sensitive skin with wet kisses before diving back into his mouth and biting at the furrow of his lip.

“Steve,” Bucky whines, not quite sure when he gave himself over to this, spine melting like lava under those strong, confident hands, and the slow drip of Steve’s continuous honey soaked praises, which at this point almost sound like white noise to his ears. 

“How about,” Steve drags his legs up and around that trim waist, grinding their bodies together to some invisible beat Bucky’s yet to be aware of. “I show you what else I learned around here, and you can tell me who you really got those moves from, huh?”

Bucky would mock him for being a weird bastard who’s both competitive _and_ possessive about the most unpredictable things, but Steve’s somehow already got their pants open and is lifting him to switch onto the kitchen table with a gut clenching swoop, laying them out on the larger stretch of space. 

“You want that, honey?”

Bucky’s already tripping over himself to strip their remaining layers, wanting any and everything Steve would willingly give him. He can’t imagine ever changing his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Faber Castell colored pencils box set is really just me projecting because have you guys seen it? It’s marvelous. Nine year old me would _swoon_.
> 
> Please share any and everything you’d like in the comments, I’d love to know what you’re thinking!
> 
> Next installment coming in a week.


End file.
